


black heart queen

by sleeplessandcynical



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Non-Consent, Crack Crossover, Established Relationship, F/M, Face-Fucking, Knifeplay, POV Third Person Limited, Rape Fantasy, Subspace, ish, kinkshaming myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessandcynical/pseuds/sleeplessandcynical
Summary: The sound of the latch was dreadfully loud when it hit. Callihan froze. The first hot, muffled breath on his nape raised his hackles and sent a shiver through his aching joints."Don't you fuckin' move or I'll end ya."Soundtrack: Gallows - Orchestra of Wolves - "Black Heart Queen"





	black heart queen

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, to try and break my writer's block, I gave myself permission to write the shit that creeps around in my lizard brain. This may need like six more rounds of editing but I'm having a really bad week and just wanted to post it to make myself feel better. 
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> I did not tag this as non-con, because it's at the end of the day consensual, but be forewarned that this is definitely centered on agreed-upon violent and threatening behavior and rape play. This is intended to represent a negotiated (well, as negotiated as CNC can be) scene where one person has a general idea of what the other is up to but the specifics are at the top's discretion. I hope that makes sense! 
> 
> Also, I'm sure no one's surprised, but I've made this pairing F/m. 
> 
> And yeah, it's a little bit of a crackship, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

_today my heart collapsed_  
_and the feeling in my stomach's like a knife in my back_  
_and it's too damn short for me to get a grip_  
_and pull the fucker out before it sticks_  
  
_today my lungs collapsed_  
_and i'm choking on my blood which has all turned black_  
_and everything i'm spitting out_  
_just spells your name_

* * *

It was cold that day. Windy and rain. The best kind of weather they make.

After far too many hours spent on the job and running errands, Callihan shifted his rained-on groceries to his left hip, bumped the front door open and yanked his keyring out, pausing in the empty, echoing lobby of his apartment building. Behind him, there was a low, irritating noise as the heavy steel scraped over the tile, taking its sweet time before finally shutting. It was a noise he'd heard a thousand times; it took exactly as many seconds as the ritual he performed every time he went through it. Keys in hand, headphones in pocket, five big steps and up the stairs.

The light, chiming sing-song that floated over the scraping partway through?  _That_  was new. It was so quiet at first that he paused, thinking perhaps he'd dropped his keys or one of his neighbors was testing out a new, slightly (okay, more than slightly) creepy shower anthem.

And then it repeated, a little louder.

_"Oh, Sami... You kept me waiting... But there you are..."_

Callihan started to turn back, trying to catch the door in time, but instead he caught a ringing blow to the jaw that knocked him to face the stairwell again.

_click._

The sound of the latch was dreadfully loud when it hit. Callihan froze. The first hot, muffled breath on his nape raised his hackles and sent a shiver through his aching joints.

"Don't you fuckin' move or I'll end ya."

Callihan grinned at the familiar Scottish burr but quickly composed his face into something more neutral. Then he heard a second sound, much like the first but louder in his ear, and it knocked every thought he'd ever had right out of his skull. Nobody home anymore except the echo.

 _click_.

That was definitely  _not_  the door. That was... wait - he didn't have time to think further before strong fingers dragged him back by the hair, tilting his head until his balance failed and brought Callihan crashing to his knees on the tile. The wet paper bag tore, and groceries scattered across the floor with a series of small pattering sounds. A muscular arm wrapped across his face, knocking his snapback off and obscuring his vision; just underneath the sliver of light that was left, he saw the matte black metal of the knife. Callihan felt a sharp bite at the hair on the back of his head, and it took what felt like hours before it occurred to him that it was probably a zipper from whatever his attacker was wearing. On some distant, faraway planet, it occurred to him that he really had dropped his keys, but even as he curled his fingers around the carabiner, scraping the dirty floor, he felt the press of a heavy, thick-soled boot on his hand and opened them again.

"I'll be taking these," the voice murmured, thick with the promise of malice. The knife moved away, and Callihan heard the boot on his back as much as he felt it, a solid and meaty thud that barely left him him enough time to turn his face away before it hit the ground. He flinched - at the strike, at the pain, at the chill of the tiles - and the still-unseen presence laughed. No. It  _giggled_. It echoed off the ceiling and bounced back down to his ears like sonar.

Callihan felt his own inexplicable laughter bubbling up to match it, and swallowed audibly, fixing his gaze to the door on the far right of the lobby, the one that belonged to his super. The weight on his back grew heavier, and keys and fabric rustled, and suddenly the voice as much, much closer.

"You live alone? Nobody waiting?"

Callihan froze. His attacker waited a few seconds before stomping hard on his upper back. "I asked you a fuckin' question."

He swallowed again, and nodded, bringing his forehead to rest on the floor when he was done.

Another stomp, just for good measure.

"Good. You're going to get on your knees and pick all this shit up. Wouldn't want the neighbors to see the mess you made. Then you're going to take me to your apartment and let me in. If you disobey, or try any shit, or fail to live up to expectations, I'm going to leave you to bleed out in your bathtub and no one will bother to look for you until it's far, far too late. Do it now."

There was one, final stomp, and then the weight on his back lifted. Callihan's heart was pounding so hard he forgot to get up at first, shoveling the cereal and frozen snacks into a pile.

When he finally knelt, it was in an attempt to gather the last of the wayward produce in his shaking hands. One thing escaped -  
_why the fuck did I buy oranges I don't even like oranges do I like oranges?  
_ \- and rolled across the floor. He scrambled after it, still on his knees, nearly dropping everything else in the process. When he finally picked it up in a firm grip, he let out a sigh of relief, and then a hand closed over his hair again and he let out a yelp.

"Get up. Move."

Callihan did what he was told, feet heavy and heart racing.

Two flights later, he turned left and stopped in front of 3B, reaching for the keys before remembering where they'd gone. The attacker placed a firm hand on his shoulder and, before he could think, spun him around and slammed his back into the door. He barely registered the sticker with the apartment number on it digging into the back of his neck, focusing instead on the face of his attacker, visible for the first time.

At least, what he could see - big eyes, a dark bandana, tendrils of hair curling out from under the hat he'd lost in the lobby, a hooded sweatshirt overtop it all that was doing a really shit job hiding a surprisingly compact, muscular, and curvy frame.

_Wait. That's a wo-_

Her knuckles grinding hard into his sternum knocked him out of his own head again with a loud, colorful, staticky blast of pain, a rain of needles he couldn't squirm away from -  
_holy fuckin' shit that hurts hurts hurts  
_ \- gasping for breath as she held up his keys with an oddly methodical head tilt. His vision doubled and trebled as the tears came, no matter how hard he fought to keep them from  spilling. Never once taking her eyes, or her fist, off him, she gave them a good shake, metal on metal on cheap plastic keychain, and tried a couple before one slid home and turned.

_click._

The door opened away from them, and Sami, forgetting that he was still pressed up against it, staggered backwards, barely able to set the groceries on the ground before tripping over a pile of shoes just inside the narrow foyer. She grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him back upright, hauling his face in with a jerk that shook the pain-tears loose from his eyes. As they trickled down, she threw her head back and let out another laugh.

"Poor thing," she giggled, and carefully wiped the droplets up with the thumb of her knife hand before disappearing it under the bandana to lick them off. "Taste good when you're scared, though."

Callihan realized he was shaking, and that her vise grip on his faded tee was probably the only thing keeping him upright. That didn't last long, though, as she shoved him further inside and let the door close behind her.

_click._

His breathing went harsh and unsteady. "Just... Just take whatever you want. I ain't got shit, though."

His back hit the couch and he slid back to his knees, feeling the bite of the rug through the holes in his jeans.

"Turn around." She waved the knife in a slow circle for emphasis, and Callihan was struck with the sudden realization that she was almost certainly smiling underneath the cloth that covered most of her face. Bracing across the back of the couch, he used it to awkwardly haul himself up just enough to turn his back. She was on him like a shot, twisting both arms up behind him until his thumbs brushed in some sort of brutal chickenwing with her knife hand, those fingers twisted painfully with his for a moment that seemed to last for hours. He could feel her reach into her pocket with the other. She was very, very close.

Something sharp and plasticky scraped over his hands, and tightened with a noise that felt painfully loud in the small apartment. Zip cuffs, he realized in horror, as she cinched them into place.

_click._

She took a step back, probably to admire her handiwork, and Callihan found his fingers reaching back for hers before he could stop them. She just giggled again and slapped them away before going silent for a few very long seconds as his hands dropped back down and he tried to straighten himself out.

"Anything I want? I don't need your fuckin'  _permission_."

In mid-sentence, everything went dark. Something warm and slightly sweet was covering his eyes. Her bandana, if the newfound clarity of her voice was anything to go by. She yanked his hair until he started to knee-walk back around; his nose filled with the smell of the damp cloth and he immediately held his breath.

_That's what her fuckin' mouth tastes like, that's what that is, her fuckin' sweet mouth, why do you why are you what are you who -_

He yanked hard on the cuffs, willing his hands to free themselves, but when she grabbed his shoulders, Callihan gave in and slumped forward, resting his forehead on her hip. At that, she shivered, and reached for his face, raking her nails up and through his hair. In an instant, he pressed his cheek into the pain.

"Fuck," he groaned, letting the air escape slowly, horrified by what was happening in his body at that moment. He took a deep breath and now his lungs were  _filled_ with her. She smelled sharp and tense, like sweat and heat and some sort of barely-there sweet citrus undercurrent that felt deeply important. Grapefruit? Lemon?

 _Orange._ Blood orange. Heh.

Callihan went limp, eyes rolling back in his head, and her grip tightened. When she spoke again, her voice was low, hoarse with something that sounded an awful lot like whatever fire was now pouring through his veins.

"Oh, I know what I want now. I know  _exactly_  what I'm taking."

And she bent down and kissed him.

In shock, he sat bolt upright, writhed and tried to shove her away with his shoulders, but she fisted her hands in his shirt and dragged their mouths back together in a clash of teeth and breath. When he finally inhaled again, her sweet taste filled his mouth, overpowering everything else, and he actually found himself whimpering when she pulled back.

She caught his arm and hauled him bodily to his feet -  
_what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck she's so strong  
_ \- then pulled to the side and gave him a hard shove that tipped him backwards over the arm of the couch. When his head hit the cushion, the makeshift blindfold shifted just the tiniest bit, and he whimpered again, trying to inch the fabric up over his eyes.

When she tugged it back down, Callihan realized he was babbling. "No no no no please no oh my fuck no don't I can't - just let me fuckin'  _see_  you I need to  _see_  you please can't fuckin' stand it -"

_i'm gonna tell you that i love you till my breathing stops_

She closed those strong fingers around his throat and the words dried up in an instant, turning to desperate gasps even as she let go just as quickly.

"I'll do you one better," she growled, with the sound of metal on metal behind it. In what felt like seconds, the couch shifted with her added weight on the edge and the sheer heat combined with the softness of bare skin through his thin shirt barely had time to sink in before she slipped two soaking-wet fingers past his lips. He let out a filthy noise that barely sounded human and twisted into a yelp when her other hand dropped the knife on the table with an audible thud and grasped his cock through his jeans. It seemed like all his blood had rushed there at once, ten shots deep, and when that hand found his zipper and started to work his jeans down around his thighs, he bucked his hips up and cried out again around the fingers in his mouth.

She pulled them out and slammed a forearm across his chest to keep him still as he gasped, flushing through his face and neck with some mortifying combination of fear, shame, and an arousal so primal it defied all explanation. She rucked his shirt up into her fist and bit him on his newly-bared chest, and the sharp shiny golden bruising snap of her teeth arched him off the couch again despite all efforts to the contrary.

This was fucked. This was so goddamn  _wrong_. This should not be turning him on. But Callihan was rock fucking hard, legs straining against his jeans, and when she stood up and he heard the deep sound of her boots hitting the floor, followed by the lighter patter of clothes, he knew he was fucked on more levels than one.

When he felt the cold steel against his neck, he tried to go stock-still, but was betrayed by his own wiring. The thrill that went through his cock would not be ignored, and he thrust blindly upward, looking for the heat of her skin, the harsh touch of her fingers. His throat brushed up against the blade, and he instantly coiled into obedience, shaking with the effort it took.

Only to lose it entirely when she found him again with her hands and her mouth. Holding himself down felt like the hardest thing he'd ever done.

It got harder.

Specifically, it got a  _lot_ harder, for every definition of the term, when she climbed atop him and settled over his mouth, facing away from him so she could continue to torment his cock with sharp movements and lazy strokes of her tongue. He could feel her smell intensify, and Callihan craned his neck hard, trying to maintain whatever it took to reach her freely-dripping cunt. When he spread her lips with his tongue and started tracing small, shaky circles, it was her turn to cry out, the handle of the knife digging into the thigh she was braced on. His neck burned from the effort, and when she recovered from her shock enough to begin stroking him again, it took willpower he had no idea he even possessed not to come on the spot.

He could feel her getting close as she fucked his face, harder and more erratic, but at the last minute, she pulled away and stood up, leaving him pathetically empty and coated in her arousal. He licked his lips, trying to reel it all in, but was shocked into motionlessness when she firmly grasped the base of his cock and straddled him again, this time at the hips.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were enjoying this, you little slut." She laughed and it sounded like dark, filthy heaven. "I'd think you  _wanted_ this."

"God, fuck," he gasped, "I don't, I don't, it's so fucked-up and wrong and I can't do it. I can't. Please."

He could hear the big smile on her face. "I don't give a fuck if you think you can't. You told me whatever I want, and what I want is to see you  _buck_." At that last emphatic word, she slid down on his cock, engulfing him in warmth and wetness. With no hesitation, he thrust up into her, head spinning a thousand miles an hour.

"Good boy," she crooned, the sweetness in her voice an almost frightening overtone to the violence of their coupling. "Sink that fat fucking cock into me. Make me feel good. Give me what I want."

She was clearly hanging onto the couch for dear life, countering every hard thrust with one of her own, grinding down so hard it gave Callihan fireworks at the edge of his vision. She'd settled the knife onto his chest, the cold weight on his heated skin a constant reminder, and now she picked it up again, tapping his cheek with the flat of the blade. The feeling terrified him, and his body responded in turn by tensing up, taking his breath away, letting seemingly all the blood run to his cock.

 _God, you're so fucked-up_ , he thought, struggling in his bonds. The thought of escape had been left far behind; his only wish in the world was to free one hand, one lousy fucking hand, so he could stroke her soft skin, tease her nipples, slip between her legs as she rocked her hips down. He could say he didn't all day and all night, but that mantra only seemed to wind him up further, each soft denial making him simultaneously stronger and weaker. Each  _how can you want this, you sick fuck_ only made him need it more.

He felt her hand reach for her clit, bumping against his pelvis as she carelessly circled, muscles gripping every part of him tighter and tighter as he swore, and begged, and _begged._

"Oh Jesus  _fuck,_ I can't take this, I can't take this, don't stop I can't please no I love it please please please..." Callihan had no idea what he was doing, or why, but -  
_i'm gonna tell you that i love you till my breathing stops  
_ \- suddenly it was the only thing he'd ever wanted in his whole life. She closed that free hand around his throat again, hard enough to make his eyes roll back again without cutting off his air, and clenched down around him, cursing in ways he had no idea even existed before. Running off a steady stream of profanity and filth of his own, he was silenced only when she dragged him into a kiss so hard he was almost disappointed not to feel blood on his lips when it was done.

He realized he was crying out a name amidst the blasphemy and sobs, but from the depths of his flooded skull, he hadn't the faintest clue why his brain had settled on "Nicola." And for some reason, it  _worked -_ she shifted her weight back and cried out, a long gutteral noise to accompany the slow drag of her body over his hips. It seemed to go on for minutes; he could feel her knife hand clench into a brutally strong first against his torso.

Without slowing or missing a beat, she inhaled deeply, moved the knife back up until the tip lightly poked just to the left of his Adam's apple, and snarled at him. "If you don't come for me right now, I'm leaving, and you can stay here like this with your hands tied and your dick out until some poor unlucky fuck pops by and finds you. Assuming they ever do."

Callihan didn't come so much as just grey out, vaguely aware from someplace that it had happened but a very long ways from being able to understand, arched back to bury himself as deeply inside her as was physically possible. His body throbbed, each electrifying pulse tingling the full length of his body before releasing inside her, seemingly one painful drop at a time.

She rode him until it started to hurt, until he was raw and battered, and only when every last bit was worked out did she slow her pace. Her kiss this time was different, somehow. Soft, and careful, and with a heavy edge of something that felt an awful lot like kindness. 

 _today my heart collapsed_  
_everything was fine and now i'm ready to relapse_  
_i can't understand how you made it through_  
_i'm totally fucked cos i'm falling for you_

Fabric scratched his face, followed by the healing caress of lips and fingers, but he still kept his eyes mostly closed, working through where and what and how he was.

"You with me, love? You can come back out now, I promise. Nobody here but us." 

For the second time that day, he smiled at the quiet brogue. She knew he needed to be talked down. Or back up. She knew a lot of things.

Sami finally opened his eyes and looked up, realizing that she'd slid off him to the floor and leaned her head on his chest.

"Mmhmm." He could barely open his eyes, but managed a small nod.

"Roll over." She tugged on his arm and kissed him just behind his ear. Callihan did what he was told, sweaty hair dropping piecemeal into his eyes. Guarding his hands with her own, she slid the knife between the cuffs and sliced through the plastic with a pop, then tossed the remnants at the kitchen trash. When they hit the can and rebounded perfectly in, she giggled and gently punched his shoulder.

"Three points for Nik," he rasped, rolling onto his back and rubbing his tingling wrists. She caught them, pressing kisses to the slight red marks the ties had left behind.

"You did so well, Sami," she murmured, and her breath on the abraided skin gave him goosebumps. "You made it through and you did so well. Thank you for this." 

 _thank you._ His lips formed the words, but nothing crept out except a rusted breath. 

They laid there in comfortable silence for a long time, and when his heart started to return to normal, she brought him a glass of water and made him drink the whole thing. After taking a few moments to clear herself up, she followed by ushering him into the bathroom with the fluffiest towel she could find. 

He caught the door in one hand before she could close it, cupping her face with the other and ducking down to give her a small, lingering, exhausted kiss. 

In the shower, he looked down and noticed the little bites and bruises all over his chest and shoulders.  _Nice._ The hot water eased the soreness in his muscles, and a few minutes alone gave him the chance to reset and return to earth. Learn to talk again and all that. It always did the trick. 

When he emerged, in a clean t-shirt and boxers she'd thoughtfully laid out, Nikki was leaning on the kitchen counter in her pajamas, wearing his snapback again and peeling an orange with the folding knife. She popped a slice into her mouth and chewed, looking him up and down like she was ready to chew him up and spit him out all over again.

Callihan laughed, and wrapped her up in his arms. "I can't believe you tried that shit in the  _lobby._ Jesus." He kissed her forehead, and she wiggled with joy.

"Yeah, well, if we still lived in an elevator building, I wouldn't have to." She shoved his chest affectionately and he let her go. "D'you have fun?"

He nodded, a sly smile creeping up his face. "That. Was. Badass. I loved it. Lost my fuckin' mind. You?"

"I almost lost mine when I saw these," she grinned, reaching for one of the remaining orange segments. "Damned clever way to remember your safeword." She popped it in her mouth, and he followed it up with a soft kiss to the corner of her sticky lips. "You're so fucking cute when you're helpless."

"Glad  _somebody_  thinks so. We can armchair-quarterback it tomorrow morning if ya want, and I'll make the coffee. But I can tell you right now, I got no complaints except I'm too fucked-out to keep standing. Thank you." Pure mischievous delight filled her eyes, and he continued, "C'mon, doll. Bedtime?" Sami had barely turned when he felt her strong arms around his neck and he cackled, stooping down so she could climb on his back. He straightened up again and she nuzzled affectionately against his ear as he carried her into their room.

"You're the fuckin' best, ya know that? Nobody else puts up with my weird shit."

She scoffed. "Puts up with? Please."

 

 _the black heart king has met his black heart queen_  
_forgot everything he was for the taste of her skin_  
_his nights no longer lonely once he let her in_  
_and by the orchestra of wolves_  
_you can hear him sing_


End file.
